


Follow the Footsteps of War

by Bastetmoon



Series: Tales of Greenwood the Great [1]
Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works, The Hobbit - J. R. R. Tolkien, The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: F/M, Mirkwood, The Last Alliance, a prelude to the battle of the Last Alliance, consenting activities between a husband and wife, mentions of Elrond/Celebrian, mentions of the first age
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-29
Updated: 2015-03-29
Packaged: 2018-03-20 07:25:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,331
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3641715
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bastetmoon/pseuds/Bastetmoon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The decision to go to war is one never taken lightly. As the years of the Second Age grow darker and the Last Alliance is created the elves of Greenwood must decide whether to fight and risk ruin or let themselves become buried by their enemies.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Follow the Footsteps of War

**Author's Note:**

> This was originally intended to be a one-shot however now it is looking more like a two-three chapter short story (the other chapters of which I intend to have up shortly). It features Thranduil, Oropher, Elrond and many other characters all of whom belong to Tolkien. Only the character of Lerethiel (Thranduil’s wife) belong to me. Please pardon any errors that I did not catch while editing. May you enjoy the story.

In the Footsteps of War

_"Cry 'Havoc!', and let slip the dogs of war".—Shakespeare, Julius Caesar, Act 3, Scene 1_

**Year 3,430 of the Second Age:**

A gusty breeze whispered across the canopy of the forest, filling the air with a sweet fragrance and the sound of a thousand rustling leaves. Within the royal apartments of the palace the sheer curtains drifted inwards, flapping as the wind disturbed them. Thranduil reclined against the cushions that had been laid on the cool floor and allowed breath of air to fan his face.

 

“Wine my love?” Lerethiel looked down from where she stood by the side table, a playful smile tugging at the corners of her mouth. The sunlight that streamed through the windows shone through the white of her dressing robe, so that the fabric was turned practically sheer.

 

“You know me too well.”

 

“Certainly.” She laughed, dropping to her knees beside him with two goblets of silver.

 

The chilled summer wine was cool and refreshing against the stifling heat that had pervaded the woodland realm these last weeks. Lerethiel lay on her stomach, head propped up on her elbows.

 

“Are you going to finish your story now?” The pleading in her voice was reminiscent of a child, a thought that for reason amused him.

 

A grin tugged at Thranduil’s mouth, “Don’t you ever get tired of hearing my stories? They are the same ones over and over, perhaps the lore masters would have newer ones than I.”

 

She shook her head, “No, never. I like your stories.” She rolled over onto her back and looked up at the painted vines which swirled across the ceiling. “I like it when you talk about Doriath, and Menegroth, and the court of Thingol. They are so beautiful. My people have no stories like that.”

 

“Very well.” His wife had the curiosity of a cat, “Did I ever tell you of the time Galion and I filled Queen Melian’s fountain with frogs?”

 

“No.” “It was a very hot summer, just like this one. I was only a young elf, not even reach my majority.” As he spoke he let his fingers run across her stomach, parting the thin material of the shift.

 

“Hmmm.”

 

“When it was so hot Queen Melian’s ladies would sometimes bathe in the fountain in the Queen’s private gardens. One day Galion and I found a pond full of Frogs in the woods in a pool that was drying up in the heat. Of course we could not just leave them and we thought we knew just where they could stay.” His fingers whispered across the inside of her thigh.

 

“You were a very naughty elfling then?”

 

“Perhaps.” He rose slightly and repositioned himself so that he could plant a kiss on her pale stomach. Lerethiel sighed.

 

They had wedded over a century ago, yet here on this too-hot day he felt as alive as the young __ who had filled the Queen’s fountain with slimy toads, maybe even more so. Back then he had scoffed at the couples who had met secretly in the gardens, or else followed each other everywhere. He had not understood what it was like to be in dazzling, blinding love.

 

Lerethiel opened one grey eye. “Are you going to finish the story?” She whispered. “Later.”

 

He kissed her again, only slightly lower this time and felt her breath hitch. “But I have a better idea for what we should do now.” She smiled slyly, one hand straying to the lacing of his breaches. One of his own hands tangled in her shadowy hair.

 

There came a knock on the door and Galion’s voice. “My prince? My prince?!”

 

“One moment!” Thranduil hollered back, and both he and Lerethiel scrambled to retrieve the clothes scattered about from their previous activities.

 

Cracking open the door he discovered Galion in the hallway looking rather anxious, ringing his hands. He gave a short bow, “My prince, and Princess Leretheil.”

 

She smiled, even as she tied shut a green silken robe around her small frame. “Please come in my lord, Thranduil was just telling me of the time you put frogs in the fountain of Melian.”

 

“Indeed.” Galion raised one eyebrow, taking in the rather disheveled state of the room. “I remember the scolding we got for that was quite extensive. They did not believe me when I said it was Thranduil’s plan and that he had dragged me along.”

 

“Ha! You shared just as much blame as I Galion, do not pretend for you make me look ill.” Thranduil pretended to sound hurt by the accusation, though in reality there was a great deal of truth behind it.

 

Galion smiled a little, “All in good jest my prince.” “Very well, very well. And what news have you brought me?”

 

Immediately the smiled dropped from the butlers lips. “We have just received reports of an envoy coming up the forest road. They are flying the banner of Gil-galad.”

 

“Gil-galad? What should he want with us?” Leretheil’s eyebrows had drawn together in confusion.

 

“We do not know, perhaps it is to do with this threat in the East, but King Oropher has requested your presence in receiving them and also in the council.”

 

A weight like a stone settled into the prince’s stomach. “Then I shall come at once.”

 

“Might I suggest you find more appropriate garments first?” The smile had come back to Galion’s face and a Thranduil realized that he was wearing nothing more than his breaches and a dressing robe thrown quickly over his shoulders.

 

“Of course, wait for me in the hallway. I shall be only a moment.” Galion bowed before he exited. Hurriedly Thranduil found his state robes, fastening them quickly. Lerethiel handed him a circlet of interlocking golden leaves, which he slipped upon his brow.

 

“There the picture of nobility.”

 

She smiled, “Good luck at the council and with the lachen emissaries. When you are finished come and find me, I would like to hear the end of that story.”She winked.

 

 

“I will see you later my love.” He kissed her upon the brow. At the door her voice called him to a halt, turning to look at where she now reclined like a cat upon the bed.

 

“Yes?”

 

“Your hair is a mess Thranduil.”

 

.0.

 

“My lords it is not a matter of what could be done. If the deceiver is allowed to amass his full strength in the east then we shall all be destroyed.”

 

The words hung heavy in the air, whispers running the length of the council chamber.

 

Thranduil smoothed the fabric of his robes, feeling a trickle of sweat run down the back of his neck. A few of the council members fanned themselves nervously. Upon the great carven throne Oropher stirred, pressing the tips of his fingers together and resting his chin upon them.

 

“Ah, so Gil-galad the great king of the Noldor is in need of our help.”

 

The emissary’s knuckles clenched white about the scroll he carried. “Yes indeed, he bids you join his alliance with all haste so that we make war upon the enemy.” A cold twinge pricked at Thranduil’s heart. The Enemy. It had been long since they had used such terminology in Greenwood, and when they had it was always in passing reference of the Great Enemy, the master with whom they had warred in the first age of the war. Now the noldor openly applied the same title to his lieutenant as if the dark days of the past were returning to haunt them.

 

“Tell me herald why our hosts should ride out to face this foe.” The King’s eyes glittered shrewdly. Thranduil knew this was a test. Oropher had lived to see the great wars of the first age and had no reason to love those who had caused them. “We have done nothing to anger this malice, nor has he any reason to attack us. Surely it is your war, not ours.”

 

There was a murmur of ascent from the other Sindarin lords. Thranduil kept his own lips sealed though the idea of war in Mordor disquieted him.

 

“Pardon me my King but it is all our war. You think the fires of the enemy will scorch only Gondor and Lindon. Eriegion we have already lost, Greenwood will be no different.” The emissary kept his tone calm but Thranduil could see from the set of his posture and tenseness in his shoulders that he was becoming frustrated.

 

“I believe you lord Elrond. However, before we can do anything as drastic as a declaration of war I must consult with my kinsmen in Laurelindorinan.”

 

Elrond bowed his head, “King Admir has already pledged himself to our cause. As have Lady Galadriel and Lord Celeborn.”

 

There had been no riders, nor letters from Lorelin in over a year. Strange that should hear of this and send no news nor consult with their kin in Greenwood. Thranduil half suspected the lachen Galadriel was behind it. Though she had been a friend to the Sindar, her noldor blood likely still called to her.

 

“Indeed.” Oropher looked thoughtful. “And you say your King hopes to make a move by the New Year?”

 

“Indeed, it is the hope of King Gil-galad that with your help and that of his other commanders we will be able to move quickly and decisively.”

 

“Very well,” Oropher stood in a rustle of robes. All round the room the others followed suit. “I shall consider Gil-galad’s plan, however, to do so I shall require time in which to meet with my advisors and counsel. This may take some day’s even weeks. I offer you the hospitality of my kingdom while you wait Lord Elrond and all who come with you. Tonight we shall have a feast in your honor and perhaps tomorrow we will talk more about this mustering of our hosts.”

 

“Thank you your majesty.” The emissary bowed very low, before he and those of his party who had been admitted to the council made towards the door. Servers in green met them there, leading off to the chambers that had been prepared even as they spoke. The rest of the council began to filter towards the doors as well. The council was over, even though the matter remained undecided.

 

“Thranduil.” Oropher reached out and put a hand on his sons shoulder, preventing him from joining the throng.

 

“Father.” Respectfully he inclined his head.

 

“Walk with me my son.” Together they swept through the back hallways. They were empty and somewhat cooler than the rest of the palace. Few ventured here and the rooms in these wings were largely empty, their inhabitants being the Silvan lords most of whom chose to dwell elsewhere in the forest. The maintaining of their chambers was more a formality than anything else. Together they paused at an arched window which offered a sweeping view from the summit of Amon Lanc out over the forest.

 

“What do you think of these tidings?” Oropher had removed his heavy crown of gilt leaves and summer flowers, the silver blond of his hair falling in curls down his back.

 

“I do not like them, and I fear we shall find ourselves fighting another war.” Thranduil leaned against the wall and surveyed the kingdom. How hard they had labored to make this place of peace a home. How they had toiled to be free of the squabbling and politics of the Noldor. Now even as all was peaceful and beautiful war threated to tear them all away from it.

 

“I fear you are right. Tonight I shall convene my war council.” Thranduil glanced sharply at Oropher, who would not meet his eyes. It had be decades since the war council had been called for. “I want you to attend the feast in my place.”

 

“Wont the Noldor be slighted if it is I dining with them and not the King?”

 

“I think they would be more slighted if I did not their great matter with all due urgency. Besides I have much to discuss with my councilors. Lord Elrond is correct in believing that this is a threat that endangers us all…yet I do not want to find myself serving his master. We have worked hard for our freedom and I do not wish to throw it all away by swearing allegiance to Gil-galad.”

 

“As you wish father.” Oropher’s eyes were soft. “I would that you would befriend this Lord Elrond, find out what you might about this campaign.”

 

“You think he has not told us all.”

 

The king turned away, eyes fixed on the sky. “I do not know, but these are about to become dangerous times.”

 

.0.

 

That night the promised feast was held in honor of the visitors, long tables relocated to the grand outdoor pavilion upon the crest of Amon Lanc. Flutist trilled merry tones and the lanterns picketed upon the grass shone brightly in the dark. But despite the attempt at merriment the atmosphere of the court was somber. Many were absent, including the King who was still sequestered with his advisors. Those that did attend wore dark looks, and talk was subdued. Thranduil presided over the high table in place of his father. Lerethiel sat to his left and the emissary Elrond had been given the place of honor upon his right. The ellon looked very much out of place in his fine spun, stiff robes. All around him the folk of the woodland court wore loose airy garments—to better combat the summer heat—in shades of brown, green, and silver grey. It made it only too easy to spot the members of Gil-galad’s embassy among them.

 

The prince himself was in no mood for celebrations—not with the inevitability of war looming on the future—yet he still tried to engage lord Elrond in polite conversation.

 

“I trust you have been enjoying your stay here in Greenwood?”

 

“It has been very enjoyable, if not a bit different from what I am used to.” The ellon, Thranduil noted, was very polite. It was little wonder he had been chosen as emissary to his King.

 

“Have you traveled much in this part of the world Lord Elrond?”

 

“Nay, though I have been to Lorelindorinan on several occasions. But I have never gone farther than that.”

 

“Indeed, we have many kinsmen in those woods. My wife’s cousin Nimrodhel dwells there, perhaps you have met her.”

 

Elrond inclined his head, “Indeed, she is a very gifted singer and admired by all. I have even heard that prince Amrod intends to make her his bride.”

 

“In that case a toast to them both.” Thranduil raised his goblet as did the Lord Elrond. When they had both drank, Thranduil set his goblet aside and lent forward a bit.

 

“Is it true what they say of the sacking of Eriegion? That the Lord Celebrimbor was slain and taken by the servants of Sauron?” The name of the lieutenant of the great enemy felt like ashes upon his tongue.

 

“Indeed.” The lord’s face was somber, “Though we retrieved the body all of that land is now overrun and will not be retaken unless the enemy falls.”

 

“Will those who dwell in Khazad-dum not help drive the filth from the land?” Thranduil had no love for the dwarves—indeed after the sacking of Menegroth he would not tolerate them—yet the dwarves were neighbors to Eriegion and would share an interest in seeing them reclaimed.

 

“Nay, they have shut their doors and will not march out in our defense.”

 

That at least is like dwarves. They would hide in their caverns until the fighting was over. He was about to say something scathing about the true nature of the Naugrim when a cool voice interrupted him.

 

“My love, I should like to play for our guests.” Lerethiel rose from her seat at the table, allowing one pale hand to graze across Thranduil’s collar as she did so. It was a small enough motion but even through the fabric of his robes it caused gooseflesh to rise upon his skin.

 

The elves had set out a harp in the center of the room—of the kind the woodland folk used—and with a swish of silk she settled herself about it. Her long fingers were graceful and ever so soft as she plucked at the strings.

 

“She is your wife my prince?” Elrond asked in a hushed voice, eyes fixed on the performance.

 

“Indeed.”

 

“She is very lovely, you are lucky.”

 

 _You do not know the half of it Noldo_. He thought. Images from earlier that day—Lerethiel tangled in the sheets and upon the cool flagstones of their chamber—filled his mind.

 

“Thank you.” They watching in silence as Lerethiel built her melody, the song taking on urgency until finally the last stanza broke and pulled her fingers away from the strings and allowed the notes to fade into silence. To polite applause she took her seat beside her husband once more.

 

“Beautiful.” Thranduil complimented her. She smiled and raised one eyebrow conspiratorially, a hand brushing across his upper thigh as she rearranged her skirts. The tips of his ears flushed ever so slightly.

 

Elrond bowed his head to her, “You are a very gifted harpist, my lady.” Lerethiel’s gaze switched from her husband to the ellon.

 

“You are very kind to say that.”

 

“Not at all, it has been very long years since I have heard music so sweet to my ears.”

 

She laughed, “Such flattery! Though perhaps you had best direct it at one who is not already wedded.”

 

The tips of the herald’s ears went bright scarlet. “That is not what I meant.”

 

“Of course it is not,” Thranduil interceded hoping Elrond was not affronted by the comment, “my wife is fond of teasing our visitors.”

 

“Certainly,” Elrond had regained a bit of his composure, “and it is of little matter for I am already betrothed.”

 

His chest puffed out a little as he said so. “Indeed?” Lerethiel paused, a goblet pressed to her lips. “And who is the lucky elleth?”

 

“I am not sure if you would know her my lady, she the lady Celebrian daughter of Galadriel and Celeborn.”

 

“I knew of the lord and lady but I was not aware they had a daughter.”

 

“Indeed, we have known each other since childhood. She was raised in the courts of Gil-galad. We have the blessing of both her mother and father, but we have decided to wait to marry until the business in the east is settled.”

 

Thranduil glanced sideways at his wife. They had not been so patient in waiting to be wed, indeed he remembered it as a rather rushed affair.

 

Lerethiel smiled at Elrond, “Then I hope for your sake as well as ours that this business shall be resolved quickly.”

 

“Even as you say my lady.”

 

.0.

 

Later in their chambers, entwined in a tangle of sheets Thranduil told Lerethiel about all that had transpired at the council.

 

She lifted her head from his chest, eyes silver in the moonlight. “You think the King will send us to war?”

 

“My father may have no choice. War is upon our doorstep already.”

 

She sighed, “Then so be it.”

 

“Are you not frightened?”

 

“Of course, but if it is meant to happen then how can we change fate?”

 

“It is as if the peace we have worked so hard for will be undone. War—even if we win—could be catastrophic for this kingdom.” He could not keep the exasperation from his tone.

 

“It is not for certain yet is it?”

 

“No.”

 

“Then maybe it will not come to that.” She burrowed her head back against him, breath peaceful and measured.

 

“Maybe it will not.” He wished he could find the faith to believe the words.

 

 

* * *

 

Naugrim- A rather unkindly word for the dwarves

Lachen-bright eyed, a name for the Noldor.


End file.
